


On Closets

by mayamaia



Series: Stealth [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayamaia/pseuds/mayamaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-transition troubles.</p><p>Kleenexwoman was telling me she didn't think she could possibly say what she wanted to about her ideas of a seriously-treated MtF Napoleon and secretly FtM Illya at anything less than an epic length.</p><p>I took it as a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Closets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



Illya eyed the long rack of gowns with thinly veiled amusement. "What possesses you, Napoleon, to drown our innocents in clothes and shoes and jewels at the flimsiest of excuses? One might simply buy or borrow ONE outfit, but you always present her with a room full of them."

Solo glanced up at his partner, then down at the jewelry he was carefully packing away. After Illya's question had hung in the air long enough that he could hear the clock ticking, Napoleon sighed gustily.

Illya raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me you actually have a reason for it, Napoleon. And one you are reluctant to share?"

"Oh, the reason is simple enough. A ...flair for the dramatic, if you will." Napoleon glanced at his partner, and then down again. "It's nice to sweep in and make a girl feel like a princess once in a while." More quietly, almost to himself, he added, "at least someone gets to feel that way."

Illya snorted briefly, and tossed back jokingly, "Even if you cannot?"

It drew no response from Solo, whose attention was firmly on the sparkling gems he gently laid on velvet cushions as he locked them away.

There was a step, and then Illya's hand was under Napoleon's chin, urging it to rise. Reluctantly obeying, Napoleon glanced up to face an indecipherable expression painted in bright blue, as a thumb brushed roughly over the evening's stubble.

Napoleon's lips twisted at the unwelcome reminder, and Illya's hand dropped. There was an instant of almost longing sadness before Kuryakin turned away, almost as if he understood, as if he possibly could.


End file.
